Merry RENTmas, 2012!
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Another year, another collecton of oneshots or all of my favorite RENTheads with all of our favorite characters. Marker included. Also RoMi, Cangel, MoJo and pretty much everything else. Happy holidays everyone! I wish room at the Holiday Inn to you all!
1. Only When You Smile

**A/N: And so begins the magical countdown to Christmas Eve! You'll be happy to know that this year I actually have all of my fic DONE beforehand and will be able to post it in a timely fashion. If I didn't write you your own fic- I'm sorry! But the final chapter will be for EVERYONE whose ever read or reviewed or just that I love with all my heart so no worries. THIS one however is for Vikki, because I started with her last year. Happy holidays! :D**

Disclaimer: _I don't own emotion, I reeeeeent! (I don't own Rent either, to be clear.)_

**One**

It isn't a coincidence that Roger recognizes the smile on Mimi's face.

It _is_ a coincidence, however, that two years ago a shivering form finally stumbles and ends up flat on her ass on the icy pavement at the boots of a wild, redheaded beauty on her way home from her shift at some sleazy bar called CBGBs.

Normally, April could care less about some teenager without a parka falling all over herself on the street in the middle of the brutal New York winter. Normally, April is strung out at this time of day on something or other, and she couldn't give less of a fuck about _anything_ but not today. Today she worked late, had a drink with the lead singer of an admittedly really shitty band and she's feeling pretty good about herself. Good enough that she decides no, she doesn't need a hit- she never _needs_ them anyways, she just _craves_ them and if you don't like it you can just fuck off- and yeah, maybe she could lend some poor sophomore across the street like a Good Samaritan.

Believe it or not, April wasn't always a devilish fox of a woman in a short skirt and bright red lipstick. She can remember _being _this girl, all big, frightened doe eyes and unwittingly beautiful surrounded by strangers her first day in the city. And as long as she was in such a good mood she might as well kick off this one's transformation.

"Hey, you." Okay. So maybe being _nice_ wasn't exactly her forte. The girl was just going to have to take what she could get. And she looks like she's going to, too, because she scrambles up to face her with an expression that spoke volumes of trepidation. "Don't go anywhere."

God, she sounded like a rapist. Next thing she knew she would be luring her into an alley.

April shook her head, bemused. How strong was that beer, again?

"What?" The little Latina has edged nervously closer, leaning in to hear her. She has snow in her dark hair, impossibly long and thick and curly and if April _had_ been some creepy rapist lurking in an alley she could have seized it and yanked her into the abyss with hardly a moment to scream. That'll be her first piece of advice, she decides. Haircut.

"Are you lost or something?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Hesitant, the girl shakes her head- she doesn't look very sure of herself. April resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"No, really," she sighs, shifting her weight as an icy wind nearly blows her away. Mmm. Maybe she is a little tipsy. It's all fine then that she isn't driving. "If you need directions, I can show ya around."

"I- I'm Mimi," the girl blurts, looking incredibly anxious. In a city like this, she has a right to be. She can't be more than fifteen. She peers up at April with huge brown eyes, flexing her gloved fingers in front of her. She's fidgeting like an elementary schoolgirl and April wonders if she even has any idea how brightly he immaturity is glowing, apt to attract all sorts of predators. It's a good thing she ran into her. "I don't really- I mean… I do live here…"

"Ran away?" That would explain a lot. But Mimi shakes her head, curls bouncing, biting one of her full lips. They're enough to attract April's attention- she's been over her little phase for months, but Mimi is just so corruptible and it's tempting. If she didn't have a rock star waiting in the wings in all of his hair-gelled glory, she would probably have to take her home.

"No… Um." Swallowing, she looks down at her feet bashfully. Her mumble is barely audible. "Kicked out."

A sudden surge of sympathy threatens to overwhelm April. She schools her features, grimacing at her and patting her head. "Damn. Not the best night for that."

She shakes her head, eyes still lowered as if she's ashamed. April has to wonder what a girl like this could possibly have done to piss her parents off that much. Or maybe she did run away and she just doesn't want to admit it. Anything is possible. She supposes it must be the good mood talking, but the compulsion to extend the invitation is too strong to resist.

"Well. Come on then." She wraps an arm around her tiny waist, still bemused by the sheer innocence of a girl with this kind of body. Mimi stiffens, but she allows herself to be lead. She looks slightly up to meet April's eyes.

"What are you-"

"I can't just let you freeze, can I? It's Christmas." She smiles, half a smirk, half more seductive than she really intended. Mimi's huge eyes get bigger.

"Oh… thank you…"

"Don't mention it." Shrugging, April pulls her closer and veers onto Avenue B. "My apartment's kinda shitty anyways."

Mimi watches her shoes as they walk along the slushy sidewalk, smiling to herself in relief, disbelief. She'll pay her back, she vows to herself. Someday she wants to be just like the girl with the red hair who took her in on Christmas Eve. Her confidence, her attitude. She wants to memorize it all for future reference.

And most of all, she'll remember that smile.


	2. Keep You Warm

**A/N: This one goes out to my favoritest fangirl in crime, Emma. I miss you! I hope you're having a good holiday season. Merry Rentmas, enjoy the MoJo. 3**

Disclaimer: _If Mark and Roger aren't mine then you can bet your ass these two aren't._

**Two**

Snow crunches beneath Joanne's boots as the door swings shut behind her, sucking the last of the warmth clinging to her skin with it. The sounds of the party, music and laughter and crackly Christmas tunes, are abruptly cut off.

_Why can't I just make her happy?_

It sticks in her head like the crystal flakes stick to her hair, nagging at her. She frowns to herself, shivers, pads slowly out of the orange glow of the security light. The snow falling slowly against the dark fabric of the sky looks more ethereal like this, like sequins or stars like she hasn't seen since she moved to the city to get her law degree.

It's just above zero degrees and she should probably get back inside. At least, she would if she had any sense. But Joanne has been mysteriously lacking in the common sense she's always been known for since she met Maureen. Now that double major and all of those years she'd spent convincing herself that she was better off alone were out the window.

Through the window, frosty around the edges, she can probably still see her laughing it up with Christine from the front desk.

Of course Maureen would do this on Christmas Eve. She was _Maureen_. Flirtatious, gorgeous- she could have whoever she wanted. Both of them knew it. Why did she even bother?

If this was what it was going to be like every Christmas, Joanne didn't know what she was going to do. This was only her third month with Maureen and already she felt like she was in way over her head. Maureen was miles out of her league. The most beautiful girl at the bar, and Joanne had been lucky enough to snag her. She'd broken up with _Mark_, for God's sakes, and all she'd ever heard was how sweet and how cute and how goody goody he was. If Mark wasn't enough for Maureen, then maybe Joanne wasn't either?

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp gust, and she winces. Her coat doesn't feel thick enough. Swallowing, she reluctantly turns back towards the building just in time for the door to swing open again, warm yellow light spilling out over her footprints in the snow. Maureen strides out after her, calling with ruby lips. "Pookie!"

God, she hates that nickname-

"Where did you go?" she pouts, drawing closer. Her arms are bare, wrapped around herself, and Joanne feels a surge of protectiveness despite herself.

God, she _loves_ that woman.

"What are you doing?" she demands, opening her arms. "Get back inside. You don't even have a coat on!" As Maureen eagerly nestles into her arms, Joanne can't help but smile. There's already a light dusting of snow in her chocolate hair, and Joanne reaches up to brush it away with a gloved hand, smoothing it over her head tenderly afterwards.

Damn it. She never can stay mad at her.

"I came to find _you."_ She mumbles against her lover's neck. Her slim arms tighten around her bulky coat, pulling her as close as physically possible. "Why'd you leave? We were having such a good time."

And just like that, she feels guilty. Is there anything Maureen can't do? With a weak shrug, she murmurs, "Just needed some air."

She reaches between them to draw the zipper of her jacket down so that she can wrap it around her lover, enveloping her in the warmth. "You should go inside," she wheedles. But now, with Maureen's body molded firmly against hers, she's not sure she wants to go anywhere.

Inside, there's competition. Men and women alike, all of them a potential distraction. And Maureen is so distractible…

Yes. Outside was the place to be.

"Only if you do." Stubborn as ever, Maureen grins and curls her frozen arms around Joanne's waist inside the coat. Joanne swears she can feel her heart melt. "I don't want to go back yet. I want to stay here."

_With you_, Joanne's mind whispers in agreement. She tightens her arms around the diva.

"I suppose that's okay," she says mock-reluctantly, pressing her lips to her lover's neck quickly and lingering there. "… It is Christmas and all."

"It's not Christmas until we have Christmas sex."

"Ready to go already?"

"Maybe…" She can practically feel the smirk radiating from Maureen's face, heart pounding. Hmm. If this was her way of apologizing, she'd have to be jealous more often.

Joanne steps back, unfurling herself from her lover. She lets a devilish smile slip onto her face. Maureen loves that smile.

"Go get your coat. I'll warm up the car."


	3. But Maybe Just a Half a Drink More

**A/N: Merry Rentmas, twin. This one's for Inky. Chris. Whatever I'm calling you now. :L I thought you would appreciate some Chanler. You probably miss him even more than I do.**

Disclaimer: _Adam and Chanler belong to InkynMichelle._

**Three**

The brown glass bottle is warm under his palm, nearly empty. Chanler stares into it with a frown pulling at his chapped lips. He swirls the last lonely puddle around in the bottom, taking a deep breath and letting it out gustily. It's impossible to ignore the trembling in his skinny frame.

Just two more days, he tells himself.

Two days until Christmas.

One month clean and three weeks hammered.

Nowadays he rarely does anything without a glaze over his eyes and fuzz in his mouth. Everything tastes like alcohol and nothing gets done, but at least Adam doesn't have to stay up all night anymore, waiting for hi to stumble in giggling and strung out on whatever he'd scared that night. The bottle warm in his palm is the last tether, keeping him here in the dark of his room rather than the dark of the alley just outside.

He really doesn't like this version of himself. He really hates it, actually. It reminds him of Roger and the empty bottles rolling around his bedroom, the stink on his breath as he backed him into the wall. If he hates beer for anything it's for stealing his best friend away from him.

Chanler doesn't want to be Roger. He doesn't even want to be Mark. He wants to be Chanler.

Adam wants him to be Chanler, too. Adam loves him, he tells him so every day, and Chanler slurs the words back at him until they lose their meaning entirely. If he got up now and staggered into the hall he's sure he'd find him slumped against the wall, a dog-eared book limp in his hand and his glasses slipping off his nose. Just to be sure.

He can't really blame him. He hasn't earned his own trust back, let alone Adam's.

But as he stares at the last slosh of liquid left in the bottle Chanler can't help but wish. He's so _sick_ of being nothing but a drunken ex-junkie and an extramarital affair. Both Rogers are dead and he's off the drugs- where the hell is his happy ending? He just wants Christmas how it should be. Mistletoe and holly, Adam and chocolate and cheap pine-scented candles.

Is that really so much to ask?

If he stops drinking now, though, there's no guarantee that he'll still be here for Christmas. He could end up lying half-dead in a filthy, slushy alley or tangled in the powder-strewn sheets of some strange man's bed- and that's not a risk he's willing to take.

The bedroom door creaks open, disrupting his morose train of thought. Chanler doesn't look up. So, Adam hasn't fallen asleep yet. It's late… Something must be bothering him. With an enormous effort, he braces himself for the impending one-sided argument.

But the yelling doesn't come. Instead, a pair of arms wraps around him from behind, a solid warmth pressing up to his back and a cold nose burrowing into his neck. He reaches back blindly to feel his short hair, heart aching at his own crippled response to the affection. "Hi…"

"I love you," Adam mutters, wasting no words. He's been quiet lately, too quiet- mourning. It's his first Christmas without Roger… Chanler supposes he must be feeling conflicted, but he can't seem to muster the energy to console him. When has he ever been good at talking, anyways? No matter what he's been through, he's still Mark Cohen to the bone. Fortunately for him, so is Adam. He won't hold it against him.

Somehow he still doesn't think he should be forgiven.

"Lovey'too." Again with the drunken words of love. Every time he utters them in this blackout state he feels a part of him die, sinking deeper and deeper into the bottle. And he'd thought smack was bad… At least when he was strung out he didn't have time to think about all of this. Up and down and up and down was better than just down, down, down.

Adam understands. Adam always understands. He reaches around to pluck the bottle from his hand and Chanler doesn't resist, just leans back into his arms and closes his eyes. Warm. He feels warm. Warm and sad… He takes a shuddering breath, and Adam murmurs, "I'm cutting you off."

He can't argue. How can he argue now, with the evidence collecting around him?

He can't become another Roger. Not now. Not just when everything had sorted itself out.

It's Christmas, for God's sakes.

"'Lright," he slurs , and for once he means it.

Alright. Cut off for Christmas. Alright.

He can feel Adam's smile against the back of his neck, broken and somehow still happy. He wants to mend that smile. He wants to make it shine again.

Twisting in his arms, he curls his arms around his lover and nuzzles into his chest. He breathes him in. He smells like aftershave, like clean. Not like stale beer and sweat and shame.

He likes it.

If every Christmas smelled like this, Chanler might just be okay with that.

Just two days…


	4. Christmas Carrots

**A/N: Nikki! I have yet to see any flying anythings show up to whisk me away! You're slacking. xD Merry Rentmas, my friend, and a happy new Marker. This is pre-Rent, just so you don't get confused.**

Disclaimer: _This fanfiction is mine. Rent is not mine. By the transitive property, the characters are not mine._

**Four**

Yawning, Roger covers his mouth and swings his legs stiffly out of bed. His skin crawls, bones protesting the cold, but he's never denied himself a cigarette when the urge struck and especially not on Christmas Eve.

All he can think as he snatches a pack and a lighter from their far less-than-creative hiding spot tucked beneath his mattress (God, the drugs really have stolen his muse) is all of the ways that Mark was going to kill him if he caught him smoking this late. It was no secret that Mark hated his "habit", most of them actually, and if he can't kill Roger's primary addiction then he's going to crusade against the lesser ones with everything he has. And Roger was supposed to have quit for the holidays. Instead, he was going outside in his pajamas to smoke in thirty degree weather.

_How many years are you trying to shave off of your life now? Get your ass back in bed!_

He rolls his eyes at the filmmakers voice inside his head, grabbing his coat on second thought. He really doesn't have a year to spare.

He hates when imaginary Mark is right. And that's always.

Unfortunately for him, he's not alone when he steps onto the fire escape. There's a rustling and he jumps in alarm, raising a hand to whack whoever it is trying to break in- who the fuck goes out of their way to break into the eighth story? On a night like this?- before realizing the figure cringing before him, hands up in surrender, is Mark.

He lowers his hand, pocketing his smokes subtly- hell if Mark is going to catch him now. "What the hell are you doing? Jesus, I thought I was going to have to kick somebody's ass."

Mark swallows guiltily, cigarettes apparently the last thing on his mind. Behind him, a paper plate lies innocently on the rail. "… Are those baby carrots?" Roger asks, incredulous, pushing him aside to take a closer look. They are. Mark fidgets as though he's been caught in some heinous, embarrassing act.

"Um… Merry Christmas," he says lamely, giving him a crooked smile. "S'just past midnight…"

"Yeah, I know. What are you doing up?" The guitarist swings his gaze back around to Mark's wide blue eyes, raising an eyebrow and awaiting answers. This is too great. If he pulls this off, Mark might even let him get away with coming out without his socks on.

Vaguely, he realizes he's come to think of Mark as his wife. Even more vaguely he realizes how accurate that is.

"Just… A holiday tradition," the filmmaker shrugs, pushing his glasses up his nose and drawing his raggedy flannel coat tighter around him. Roger isn't buying it.

"Hanukkah's over, dumbass." He rolls his eyes, shifting his weight anxiously. _Dammit, Mark._ He hasn't smoked in over a day and it's killing him, and it's all Mark's fault. Just for that, he should eat his stupid carrots.

Carrots…

"Holy shit!" he exclaims, a smug grin coming over his face. Mark jumps so badly he nearly falls backwards over the railing and Roger darts a hand out to grip his bicep tightly, pulling him back. "I know what you're doing!"

"No you don't." The grimace on Mark's face tells him he's right. He smirks, waving a taunting finger.

"Marky, reindeer don't like it when Jews touch their food."

"Shut up," he grumbles, shoving him off half-heartedly and patting the plate to be sure it's still there. He looks up sheepishly. "My mom used to do it with me when I was a kid, okay? She never really bought into the whole eight days thing and my dad let it slide…"

Privately, Roger thinks that's the most adorable fucking thing he's heard all day. Outwardly, he guffaws obnoxiously in true Roger fashion.

"I swear to fucking God, Cohen, you're the worst Jew I've ever met."

"Roger stop-"

"You eat bacon, you're dirt broke-"

"Shut up Roger-"

"You _feed the reindeer_, holy shit-"

"God damn it, Roger, leave it alone will you?" He's flushed with cold and embarrassment, huddling subconsciously closer for warmth. Roger doesn't shut his mouth until Mark has a gloved hand over it, laughing raucously, prying his fingers away. He ruffles Mark's hair in real amusement.

"Alright, well, they're fed. Run along to bed now, or Santa won't come." He waves a hand mockingly. Mark rolls his eyes.

"Fuck you." He narrows his eyes, holding a hand out expectantly. "Hand em over."

"What?" Roger asks innocently, widening his eyes. Internally he curses. Mark always could see right through him. It was like those stupid glasses gave him x-ray vision or something. Roger would have to confiscate them tomorrow…

His face tells him that this will be easier if he just cooperates, and Roger really doesn't want to get into a wrestling match with his scrawny-ass friend on the fire escape this late at night. He sighs, dipping his hand into his pocket reluctantly and forking over the pack, keeping the lighter and just one for himself. Mark seems to know, without even looking, but he just rolls his eyes and disappears back inside.

"Put some socks on…" his voice comes drifting out, no nonsense. Roger looks down in bemusement at his bare feet.

He lights the cigarette, brings it to his lips. As he takes the first drag, his eyes light on the abandoned plate and he feels his lips curl into a smile. He reaches out, plucks one off and takes a bite as he exhales before setting it back down.

With all Mark does for him, he deserves a little Christmas magic of his own.


	5. I Saw Daddy Kissing

**A/N: ELIZABETH I LOVE YOU HI THIS IS YOUR RENTMAS PRESENT. It's non-angsty Antoneil aren't you proud of me?! Gahhhhhhhhh Christmas is so much better with Antoneil okay I'm spazzing I need to shut up now go read. xD**

Disclaimer: _Actually, I think all of these characters are actually ours… Uh. *awkward*_

**Five**

"Are you really sure we should be giving her that?" Neil asks worriedly, watching his two-year old suck happily on the end of a candy cane. Toni rolls his eyes, arms firmly around her in his lap.

"I think she can handle it," he replies dryly, pressing a quick kiss to her head and smiling down at her. The older she gets, the more she looks like her mother, and the thought should make him sadder than it does. Neil sure as hell looks sad sometimes, fingers tracing Mimi's face in the frame he keeps at his bedside, then Roger's- but that's all in the past. They would do well to forget.

"She's little, Toni, those things can get sharp! Maybe we should give her something safer- a marshmallow-"

"What, so she can choke on it?" He snorts, grinning in amusement. Angie pulls her mouth off with a pop, parroting him. "Choke on it!"

Neil winces, shaking his head. "Fine… You win." _This round._

Raising a baby with Neil became a competition sometimes, and most of those times neither of them turned out to be right. To be perfectly honest, this wasn't exactly what Toni had been expecting when he'd been asked to help out a week or so before Roger's death. He'd expected to be cleaning up baby puke and potty training, but Angie was a remarkably well-behaved in those respects… not so much in others.

It was perfectly reasonable, for example, to be worried not about her poking herself in the eye with the sharpened end of a candy cane but to worry that she might start perforating the walls.

For now, however, Toni has a reasonably good grip on her. She'd promptly returned to her vigorous sucking, fascinated by the way the stripes began to disappear the longer she licked it. Good thing, too, because she needs a distraction to keep her in check today.

Boxes litter the floor around him, decorations spilling out of them. Chanler and Adam had stopped by today, looking worn but happy, to drop off the ornaments and Collins had pilfered a plastic tree for them a week or so ago, from where he had no idea. This wasn't Angie's first ever Christmas, but it was the first that Neil had the time and the money to make it special for her. Not that he had any idea what he was doing.

While Toni holds the squirming baby girl, Neil goes sifting through boxes and bags that have probably been in storage for years, searching in vain for an angel for the top of the tree. He mumbles, frustrated, as he goes. "Welcome mat… singing Santa…" The aforementioned items are tossed carelessly onto the floor and he makes an aggravated noise. "Mistletoe… Who the hell uses mistletoe anymore?"

"Guys who can't get laid," Toni supplies with a smirk, blushing to the roots of his hair when Angie crows, "Get laid!"

Neil turns on him with a scowl. "Watch your mouth around my daughter."

He holds up his hands in surrender, widening his eyes innocently. "Hey, it's not my fault. She's _your_ kid, _you're_ supposed to give her the talk."

"When she's thirteen, Anthony, not two." He makes a face at the very thought, turning back to the box. Amused, Toni sets Angie carefully onto the couch and draws up beside him, peering into the box.

"Is that a dildo?" he asks, biting his lip to stifle a giggle. Neil swats him, coughing to disguise his laughter as he shakes his head.

"It's an _ornament_. Mind out of the gutter, Toni, we don't have a babysitter."

"She can watch herself. She's old enough to be alone for a few minutes." He grins, wrapping his arms around his lover from behind. For once, the loft is actually heated come December and the warmth is delicious, spreading through their bones, reigniting their romance. It's been months now since Roger and although Neil hasn't forgotten, he seems at peace now, less guilty each time he takes Toni's hand.

He still doesn't like to make it too obvious, not in front of Angie. It stings a little. But Toni can understand that, even if he doesn't like it.

"Don't get any ideas," Neil warns, a smile in his voice. He kneels before another box and Toni follows suit, unaware of the little chocolate-eyed girl crawling curiously about on the floor behind them.

"Come on. It can be my Christmas present?" he wheedles, teasing and poking him in the side. Neil shoves him away with a snort, tossing a stuffed bear from one of the boxes at his head. It's in danger of becoming a full-scale ornament war as Toni picks the singing Santa off the floor, but Angie's tiny voice interrupts gleefully. "Miss-tul-toww!"

Neil looks up to find his daughter, bouncy curls and all, tottering towards them with a fistful of faux green leaves and red berries. He can't help but smile, scooping her into his arms to prevent her from falling. "What was that?" he murmurs, fighting a grin.

"Mistle-toww!" she squeals, giggling and thrusting the plastic at her father's face. Toni sidles closer, plucking it from her fist and dangling it over their heads.

"Huh," he teases, giving a suddenly nervous Neil a challenging look. "I guess we'll just have to kiss, now, won't we."

"Kiss!" Angie repeats obediently, lighting up. Neil's indecision melts away. He leans up, planting a solid peck on his lover's lips. Toni grins triumphantly, leaning in for an encore, Angie's giggles acting as applause. He pulls back to smile into Neil's eyes, murmuring as he takes his hand.

"Was that so bad?"

The other man looks lost for a moment, hesitant. He looks between his child's delighted face as Toni hands her her sticky candy cane and Toni's smug grin and finally, reluctantly, smiles as well.

"I guess not," he murmurs back, squeezing Toni's hand. Angie gasps.

"Kiss! Kiss!"

Neil groans, giving Toni a reproachful look. "I think she has a new favorite word…" Toni grins at his success, leaning in and waggling his eyebrows.

"I can deal with that."


	6. Christmas in July

**A/N: Miiiiiiiikiiiiiiiii my amazing artist friend merry Rentmas! Hype about Les Mis? I would write fic for that but I don't know how yet, I owe you one okay. :3**

Disclaimer: _Pretty sure none of the topics covered in this belong to me._

**Six**

"Mark- Mark, what the _hell_ is that?" Roger leans out of the bedroom, hanging onto the door frame and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Mark's voice emanates from behind the enormous box in his arms, light and cheerful. That's never a good sign.

The filmmaker kicks the door shut behind him, stirring the sweltering air. He drops the box with a thud on the living room floor, looking far too smug. Uh-oh. Not again. "It's a Christmas tree." He rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. "And it's heavier than it looks."

"Mark, it's July," he protests, creeping out into the hallway. Mark's eyes gleam. Roger wonders if this is just another ploy to get him out of his room- if it is, it's working. "We're not in desperate need of a _Christmas_ tree."

"We're always in desperate need of a Christmas tree. Do you know how hard it is to get one of these when people actually want them?" He scoffs, as if this is the most genius plan he's ever had, and steps around the box into the hall. Roger's eyes widen as he brushes past him and into his room.

"Hey- hey, where are you going?! Get that thing out of here!" He follows right behind him, anxious for no real reason. It's not like Mark hasn't seen his room before and he doesn't really have anything to hide, except maybe a pack of cigarettes that Mark hasn't confiscated yet, but dammit this is his space and he's territorial. "Mark!"

"Oh, calm _down._ The ornaments are still in the back of your closet right?" The blonde rolls his eyes, ignoring Roger's whining. It takes some rummaging and Roger swears he's going to hit him when he emerges, but he finally pulls out a dusty box from beneath an avalanche of accumulated junk including a bra that Roger is reasonably sure was April's. He's also pretty sure that it's wrong if it turns him on.

Well, it is mid-July and they have yet to be blessed with an air conditioning unit. He may as well blame it on the heat.

"Ugh, it smells like ass in here. You know, shoving your shit in the closet isn't the same thing as cleaning your room." Mark wrinkles his nose, evidently unaffected by Roger's specialized glower. He peels open the box and sneezes, dust flying everywhere, and peers inside with watery eyes, evidently satisfied. "_There _we go."

"You actually think I'm going to help you decorate a Christmas tree before November. You're kidding." Incredulous, Roger shakes his head, lingering by the door.

"Not kidding, you're helping. Come on," he chirps, grunting as he heaves the box into his arms. For someone so scrawny, Mark is awfully strong- especially when he's got that manic look in his eye, like nothing is too big for him to accomplish. Roger never knows how to feel about that look. More often than not it means he's going to get roped into some crazy scheme. Just like now.

Despite himself, he follows Mark into the living room, grumbling all the way. "Who do you think you are? Maybe I was doing something important. _Maybe _I finally got over my writer's block-"

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear any shitty guitar from the stairwell. I guess I assumed," Mark replies dryly, dropping the ornaments beside the larger box and digging in his pocket. He hands Roger a candy cane. "Here. Now shut up." Roger groans, discreetly pocketing it.

"Fuck you. I don't want to."

"Well, you're going to." He twists to look at him, smiling mischievously. Roger fights the compulsion to chew his lip. He _hates_ when Mark looks at him like that. And by hates it, he means loves it, and by loves it, he means it makes him really fucking horny. God _dammit._ Mark fights the box open and shoves it at Roger, dragging the bushy green plastic top out, humming Christmas carols the whole way.

"It's July," Roger mutters, but it's weak even to his own ears now. Mark is happy. He's actually out of _his_ room for once, for a reason that has nothing to do with his camera, and so Roger is obligated to indulge him and they both know it.

"It's beginning to look a lot, like, Christ-mas!" Mark singsongs in reply, grinning unapologetically. He sets the base on the floor, fiddling with the pieces and slowly building it up from the ground. Roger gives a bemused smile.

"… Yeah. Sure it is."

This is probably one of the more bizarre things Mark has talked him into. But as the tree takes shape before him and Mark hands him ornament after ornament to hang on the branches, Roger has to admit that it's better than lying around feeling miserable.

And, of course, he's probably getting laid later. That's a plus.

So he lets it go, doesn't even ask where he got it in the first place. It doesn't matter.

At least he knows that in December they'll have a tree gracing the freezing loft.

Optimism. It's a learned skill.


	7. Welcome to New York

**A/N: A very merry Rentmas to Ricky, my fellow Renthead from across the world. You'll probably read this at a reasonable hour your time, God knows when I post it you probably won't even be awake, but the thought is there. I can't wait to meet you someday. :L**

Disclaimer: _Mark, Roger, NYC, none of them mine._

**Seven**

Walking down the gray, slushy streets of 11th Street, Mark stares up around him in wonder. The lights, the noise, the traffic, the people- and he'd thought he'd been prepared.

_Hah._

Perhaps it's just because it's his first Christmas in the city (his first Christmas ever, actually) but since his arrival a week ago nothing has ceased to amaze him. Back in Scarsdale practically everyone was Jewish and most people didn't decorate at all, let alone like this. Everywhere he looks lights are twinkling, colorful ads flashing, bells ringing. Even in the shitty hotel he'd been living out of its festive and bright, and it would be cheesy and annoying if he weren't still wonderstruck by everything he saw. Mark finally felt like he'd found home.

Home for him used to be a cozy white house with a picket fence and a fireplace. Now, it was a tiny box of a room with peeling paint and a funny smell, mattress mysteriously stained.

It has yet to dampen his enthusiasm.

This, Mark thinks to himself contently, is living. His camera has fused to his hands this past week, pointed everywhere, at everything, at every angle he can manage without contorting himself into impossible positions. The buildings stretch what seems like miles into the sky and the people press together into an almost seamless crowd of wildly deviating tastes. Here in Alphabet City, as he's learned it's called, some of the most interesting and admittedly strange people have made their homes. And they're all in the Christmas spirit.

Still, it does get a little lonely. Even surrounded by people Mark is an outcast, and he's hardly the oddball. He's glad he's not home, but he wishes he had someone to spend the holidays with.

Just as he sighs and shifts his camera, determined to put this morose thought behind him in favor of another frozen afternoon of film and awkward solitude in the midst of the crowds, Mark stumbles and lands at the boots of an unfamiliar, hostile-looking man in a leather jacket.

_Shit._

Suddenly all of his mother's frantic warnings about city life and the dangers of come rushing back and he freezes, staring up nervously. The unamused, kohl-rimmed green eyes of a clean-shaven pretty boy glare down at him. "Watch it," he snaps, flicking ash from his cigarette. It flutters down into Mark's face and he inhales it inadvertently, coughing. He scrambles back to his feet, backing away.

"S-sorry," he squeaks, mind racing. Out of nowhere, he blurts, "I'm M-Mark. Um. Mark. Cohen. Sorry…"

He trails off into an awkward silence that he's sure he could patent by now, swallowing and shifting his weight. This man doesn't look very amiable. If he was going to make friends, this probably wasn't the best way to go about it. But the idea of proving his mother right and acting the coward sounds ten times worse than getting the shit beat out of him. After all, doesn't everyone who comes to the city get punched in the mouth at least once? Granted, they were probably drunk, but Mark had never had much in the way of common sense. He braced himself for impact.

Instead, the other man eyes him with obvious irritation. "Right. Great." His sarcasm was thick enough to cut and he licks his lips, tossing the butt onto the concrete and stomping it out into the slush viciously. "Roger. Nice to have met you."

He starts to brush past, but Mark has another stupid idea and his hand darts out to catch the stranger's shoulder before he can get very far. Roger turns slowly with an expression that turned Mark's knees to jelly.

"What_-"_ he starts, eye practically twitching in annoyance. But Mark plows on, stumbling over his words and holding up his camera breathlessly.

"Um- I was just- I was wondering if you'd let me follow you around…? Get a little footage, maybe? You're really photogenic…" He bites his lip, gauging his reaction. _Yeah, compliment him Cohen, then he'll think you're a fag AND an idiot._

He tells the voice in his head to shut up. It's being very negative today.

In any case, Roger is blinking at him in utter bafflement but he doesn't look quite so hostile anymore. Rather, he seems to be torn between flicking him in the forehead and telling him to get lost and preening like he obviously wants to. Mark starts to smile in relief. Maybe he won't get punched today after all.

Is it strange that that disappoints him a little, too? Probably. But he's sure he'll have his initiation eventually.

"… Sure. I guess. Why not." He shrugs eventually, glancing down at the camera in grudgingly curious manner. "Whatsit for?"

"I dunno yet. I'm making a movie… I think. I don't know." _You sound like an idiot. Stop talking._ "Um- I'm sorry, I'm just- new… I'm Mark."

"You said that already." He smirks, hands in his pockets now as he regards Mark like he would a helpless little sibling he might like to torture. Mark can't decide if that's a good or bad thing. All he knows right now is that if he ever needs advice on where to buy his hair gel, Roger can probably give him the answer.

He refrains from saying that out loud. He really doesn't want to be punched, now that he thinks about it.

"I- I know…" He looks up at him through his eyelashes, anxious to get on his good side. For the first time since he got here he doesn't feel completely isolated, and it's sort of nice to have real human contact once in a while. He doesn't want it to end just yet. Roger raises an eyebrow, swinging his gaze behind him.

"Do you care where we go? I've got a gig later at CBGBs, so…"

"That sounds great!" His voice cracks and he winces. _Why._ "Where- wherever you want! Lead the way."

Roger shrugs, doing just that. Mark trots behind him like a faithful little puppy. He has no idea that he's going to make a habit of this.

It happens again the next day, and the day after that. Mark attends every one of Roger's gigs and Roger starts to smile when he sees him, nodding his head in a way that makes Mark's stomach twist into knots. And by Christmas Mark has his very own room in his new home, which doesn't have peeling paint or stains on the mattress, but a whole host of raunchy roommates and no heat and usually moldy bread on the counter. And he can't stop smiling.

Yeah. This is the life.


	8. Stinky the Christmas Cat

**A/N: Oh, where do I even begin. Addyyyyyyyy. You're awesome, merry Rentmas. Points if you remember this from our RP. :3 I love you! I bought you a wallabe! I hope you get a New Years kiss this year. *waggles eyebrows* Tell Jordan merry Rentmas from me.**

Disclaimer: _Marky and Roggy still aren't mine! God damn it!_

**Eight**

"I don't cry," Roger mumbles into Mark's shoulder. The smaller boy pats his friend's back awkwardly, wishing he knew how to comfort him. Mark's mother has never been fond of pet hair so he has no idea what it's like to even have to remember to feed a cat, let alone lose one.

"I'm sure he's thinking of you wherever he is…" he tries, smiling weakly. He feels stupid afterwards. Why is he smiling if Roger can't even see him? God, he's such a dork.

"I don't _care_ I just want him back." The guitarist sniffles, clinging to his friend like a baby koala. He won't admit it, but his cheeks are already wet. He probably wouldn't admit it if he were openly sobbing. Roger Davis does not cry. Roger Davis is manly. "It's Christmas! And it's fucking freezing out, what if someone ran him over? Or he starved to death? Stupid fucking cat!"

He's bordering on hysterical, gulping for air to try and calm himself and Mark knows this is really his jurisdiction but Roger is way more emotional than Maureen has ever even pretended to be. "Well… you don't… you can't _know_ that."

"Who even fucking cares? I don't care. It's a stupid cat. With a stupid name."

_You named him_, Mark thinks, but now probably isn't the time for that sort of comment.

"Stinky will come back. He loves you. You've had him for years," he says lamely, biting his lip. This _always_ happens. He doesn't mean to pity his friend, knows that he hates it, but he just can't help it. He just always looks like he needs a hug. _Poor Roger._

Poor Roger looks like he wants to kill him. He releases him abruptly, glaring through teary eyelashes. "Thanks for the update, captain obvious," he snaps, wiping at his face, obviously embarrassed. Mark tilts his head and tries to find a way to spin this positively. He comes up empty-handed.

"He's not coming back. I don't know why I even feed the stupid thing," Roger mutters, rambling on and on until it doesn't even mean anything. Mark thumbs at the bedspread, glancing around helplessly. Roger's bedroom has barely evolved since they were six years old. They don't have a whole lot of money, and the room is plain to match- his clothes are ratty and oversized or undersized, never in between, lying in careless piles on the floor. Icicles as thick as his wrist line the window but Mark can still just barely see the snow drifting in the dark sky outside.

When he glances back to Roger he notes that his eyeliner is running, but decides he'd probably be punched if he said anything.

"You feed him because you love him," he belatedly murmurs, taking Roger's hand out of habit. He squeezes, smiling just a little, trying to draw a smile in return. It works, to a degree, but another tear spills over his cheek and his lip wobbles and Mark can tell this is going to be a long night.

It's a good thing they don't celebrate Christmas at his house, because Roger definitely isn't going to make it through the night without him.

"No I don't. He's stupid. He left me." Roger sniffles and squeezes his eyes shut. Suddenly this is about so much more than a cat. This is about his dad and his mom and the days and days he spends home alone, or with that creepy step dad of his. Mark feels his heart squeeze, hurting for him. He pulls him closer again.

"He'll come back. I know he will. Maybe we should just go to bed and wait… You never know."

It's meant to give him hope but he can tell it hasn't worked. Roger just nods miserably, turning over and throwing an arm over his face. After a long, silent moment Mark turns the lights out and settles in beside him for the night. He can feel each of Roger's deep breaths in the rise and fall of his shoulders, cuddling as close as he dares.

Somehow, he doesn't think Roger is going to mind a little closeness tonight.

**MRMRMRMRMR**

There's a pawing sound at the door. _Scritch. Scritch._ Mark sits up groggily, squinting in the pale lavender light of morning, trying to find the source. It takes him a moment to realize, but when he does a slow, disbelieving smile stretches over his face.

The carpet feels cold under his sleep-warmed feet. He gently twists the knob of Roger's bedroom door, letting it swing a few inches inward. A scraggly brown head pokes through, giving a garbled meow.

"Roger," he whispers, watching as the filthy bag of fur jumps up into bed beside his owner. "Merry Christmas."


	9. All I Want for Christmas

**A/N: We're closing in now… This one is for Michelle, my fourth and final Marky buddy. :L Your first Christmas as a grown up aren't you all excited? Enjoy the feels!**

Disclaimer: _Oh hey guess what they're still not mine. That would make a great Christmas gift though._

**Nine**

"I dunno man, isn't giving her jewelry kind of tacky?" The guitarist snorts, hanging backwards off the side of Mark's bed, hardly even paying attention. He's more than enthralled in the beat-up red Etch-a-Sketch in his hands, twisting the knobs in intense concentration and growing frustration. It's only a matter of time until it ends up cracked against the wall with the Rubik's Cube and the ball maze that Mark used to be so fond of.

The bespectacled boy beside him runs a nervous hand through his freshly cut hair and frowns, biting his lip. "That's not helpful," he mumbles. Roger had come over under the pretense of needing help with his math work but now it's not looking like they're going to get _anything _done.

Sometimes Mark thinks he should get a more diligent best friend.

Roger huffs and chucks the toy to the floor, sitting up with a grunt. He fixes his mussed hair absently and rolls over, shirt riding up his lean back.

Other times Mark thinks he should get a less attractive best friend.

He's supposed to be thinking about his girlfriend. His _brand new_ girlfriend, with boobs and everything. Maureen is a fucking bombshell, in Roger's words, and even with the funny feelings he gets in his stomach when he looks at his best friend Mark can't disagree. He's been watching her for years, but now that he has her he doesn't really know what to do with her.

"Stop whining and think for a minute, will ya?" he snorts, and Mark blinks, flushing as he tries to refocus. Lately he's had a one track mind, and all thoughts lead him right back to Roger. "It's just a fuckin' Christmas present. Get her a snow globe or something."

"And that's not tacky?" The young photographer makes a face, shaking his head in utter exasperation. Maureen, he reminds himself. Think of Maureen. She deserved a nice gift. She was pretty, she was passionate- and for some backwards reason she'd decided to take pity on him and call him her boyfriend.

It didn't feel as good as he'd hoped it would, probably because he'd been looking forward to Roger's enthusiasm, which had never materialized.

"Well how should I know what she likes?" Roger tosses him an annoyed look, picking at his nail polish. Usually Mark avoids boys who wear makeup like it's normal but he can't exactly avoid Roger. "You're fucking her, not me."

"We haven't done anything!" Mark hisses, face flaming at the thought. He hugs a pillow to his chest, unsure whether to be aroused or just plain embarrassed. Or maybe a little guilty, seeing as Roger is sitting right here with no idea of how much Mark would rather be kissing him. "Roger! Help me out here."

The young guitarist huffs and blows a bleached curl out of his face, clearly exasperated. "_Fine._ Get her flowers. Or a condom bouquet."

_Oh my God_. "I don't even want to dignify that with a response.." Mumbling, he slumps backwards and buries his face in the pillow, all hope lost. He can hear Roger rustling as he moves closer to peer at him, as if trying to decide whether or not to apologize. But that's ridiculous. Roger doesn't apologize. More likely he's just contemplating whether or not he can take the pillow from him and beat him over the head with it.

"Get over yourself, Marky, she likes you. She'll like anything you get her. It's Christmas, not the end of the world." He pauses and Mark peeks out at him, uncertain. "… And you're Jewish anyways. You have an excuse."

"We still get presents for Hanukkah," he admits quietly, but he's smiling. As much of an asshole as Roger was on a daily basis, he usually knew when to come through. Like now. A warmth, familiar and not entirely unwanted, glows in his gut and he squirms a little, wishing he could hug him without feeling like a fag.

"Whatever, man." Roger smirks and flips him off, folding his legs beneath him and settling in almost like a cat. It's not looking like he's going anywhere tonight. Mark hopes they still have that spare toothbrush- he knows for a fact he didn't pack a bag. "It's on you."

"Maybe…" _Maybe let's stop staring at your best friend and get to work, dumbass. _The flush on his cheeks won't fade anytime soon, but Roger is used to that; he just gives him that awkward, shy little smile of his. "I could do a photoshoot with her?"

Now Roger looks mildly impressed, or possibly amused- he crawls over to lie out beside him, stretching and offering a crooked smile. "Now there's an idea."

And to be honest, that's all Mark _really _cares about. Roger's approval. There's probably something wrong with that, but at the moment, he couldn't give less of a fuck.

Roger is smiling at him…

Belatedly, he smiles back, feeling as though his face might crack in two. "You wanna help me warm up?" His hands are itching for the camera now, the camera that loves Roger so much more than it's ever going to love his new girlfriend.

Groaning like this is the biggest chore in the world, as if he doesn't love to preen before the lens, Roger sits up and rolls his shoulders. "If I _have_ to. Shirt on or off?"

"On, asshole." Mark brings the camera up and peers through it, lighting up as Roger stares back with that trademark smirk of his. "Smile."

The flash goes off, and as it fades so does his anxiety.

Maureen can wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, he has Roger- and that's all he wants for Christmas anyways.


	10. You Can Do the Job

**A/N: Wishing Jared a merry Rentmas from my cave, I hope he'll find this to his liking. Also that I remember to tell him where he can find it so he can read it in the first place… Marker ahoy!**

Disclaimer: _My favorite bohemians, alas, belong to the late great J-Lar._

**Ten**

"Don't- ahhh… fuck, Mark, I said no-"

"You didn't mean it. Mm. Lift-"

"_Jesus._ Mark!" he gasps, going boneless against the mattress. Behind him Mark cheerfully straddles his lower back, kneading his thumbs beneath his clothed shoulder blades triumphantly. Roger swears this is heaven. "Ohh my God I love you…"

"You're such a drama queen. It's just a little massage," the filmmaker teases, those nimble fingers working wonders. He colors at his admission, giving a small internal sigh of longing. If only, if only. He could do with a Christmas miracle. "Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything?"

"You're perfect," Roger mumbles, muffled against the mattress, all of the fight gone right out of him. The loft is as freezing as it ever was, Benny (the asshole he is) having never turned on their heat but Mark's weight is warm and solid and constant, comforting. Kind of like Mark himself, but that's too cheesy to ever, ever say out loud and he wants to punch himself for thinking it. Those kinds of thoughts never lead anywhere good. In fact, they usually become lead to the darkest recesses of his filthy mind.

Mark probably wouldn't survive there. It's a good thing that the Marky in his head is hardier than the real thing, or he would have had a heart attack long ago.

"High praise from the sex god," he murmurs absently, hands rubbing down slowly, almost sensual. It draws another unholy sound from Roger's throat and he has to struggle not to act upon his baser instincts.

Mark's pretty sure that Roger has no idea he's got a filthy little corner of his own mind devoted to just the same thing.

"Mmmm, you could earn so much money doing this- _ohgod,"_ Roger moans blatantly, toes curling, entire body tensing as Mark's hands work diligently at the knots in his lower back. The filmmaker blushes to the roots of his hair.

"Could you make it sound a little less like I just found your prostate?" he jokes. _As though I mind… _"The neighbors already think we're fucking."

"Mimi can think what she wants," the guitarist mumbles, smiling blissfully against the pillow. It's easy to forget that a year ago Mimi was dying in his arms in the other room, even easier to forget that two years before he'd spent the whole of Christmas Eve tangled in the sheets with April and her needle. Mark is all he has to think about anymore and it's so much better, exactly what he needs. Who needs a girlfriend when they have Mark Cohen to take care of them?

As he whimpers for more, slumped against the mattress beneath his friend's hands he has to wonder why they haven't just made it official yet. Lingering looks and small, knowing smiles are exchanged on a daily basis and yet no one has made a move. It's possible that he's misinterpreted- that Mark is clueless, as innocent as he always seems to be and he has no idea what desperate things Roger feels when he looks at him. More likely, however, they're both just pussies procrastinating on the first move.

Well, as much as he loved to procrastinate…

Hell. It's Christmas, he'll do what he wants.

He rolls over to face him abruptly, and Mark freezes with his hands in a compromising position over his hips, blue eyes widening as a flush rises on his pale cheeks. _God, I love you._ Roger swallows the words down before he can embarrass himself.

_Too soon, Davis, too fucking soon._

"Hey Mark," he asks casually, catching his wrists. Like a deer in the headlights, Mark just stares at him in answer, nodding hardly at all. He plows on, beginning to smirk at the shade of his filmmaker's cheeks. "I think I want my Christmas present early."

"So this wasn't your Christmas present?" He raises an eyebrow, faint sarcasm rising to the surface and Roger gives him a dirty look.

"Shut up. No. I had something else in mind…"

"I hope it's not anything that requires _cash_ because I have about two dollars in change-" He chokes off as Roger yanks him down into a kiss.

The songwriter takes his time, calloused hands sliding up to cup his jaw. He wants to make this right. Make it last. He'd spent hours and hours perfecting his technique with countless groupies, with April, even with Mimi and suddenly he knows why. It takes Mark several moments to respond but when he does it's like a tidal wave, lunging forward to press him backwards into the mattress, arms encircling his neck. Roger laughs breathlessly, breaking away reluctantly and looking up at him.

Mark blinks down at him dumbly, still processing. He barks a laugh at his expression.

"This is the part where you thank me," he hints, arching his neck a little. Mark jumps, blushing like a fire hydrant.

"Oh- right. Thanks." He dives down for a harder kiss, pressing as close as he possibly can.

So maybe they don't make the biggest deal out of holidays. And maybe Roger's done this countless times before. But that doesn't make it any less special.

And unbeknownst to him, Mark is already plotting in that devious little mind of his. A hand slips between them slyly, lower, lower-

"Mark!"

It's going to be a _very_ merry Christmas.


	11. Give In

**A/N: Almost there… this one is for my boyfriend Zac, whom I occasionally write things for and probably shouldn't because he doesn't want to read them. Anyways. I still wish him a merry Rentmas and I'll try to be happy this year. I love you bear.**

Disclaimer: _Roger and Mimi and alla dem are still very much not mine._

**Eleven**

Curls swinging into her face, Mimi bends over to peer beneath the dumpster at a pair of glowing yellow eyes. She coos, coming closer and crooking a finger at the bedraggled creature.

"Oh, commere sweetie." She makes an enticing noise, crouching down and trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

It's freezing. The thing is so tiny and helpless, there's no way it'll survive the night without her. And around here, Mimi doubts that anybody else will be stopping and taking the time to lure it out and give it a home, at least for the night. It's up to her. She inches closer, careful not to move too quickly and scare it off. The kitten shrinks back against the brick, hissing as fiercely as it's little orange body can manage when it's shivering like that.

"You poor thing," she murmurs, finally getting on her knees and reaching beneath to scoop it out. It wriggles in her grasp, squeaking in alarm, little ears laid flat against it's head as she tucks it into her coat pocket and strokes it's matted fur, getting back to her feet.

"I'm going to give you a good home," she promises, receiving several strange looks from passerby. "And some milk, and a bed…"

**MERRYRENTMAS**

It takes Roger longer than he's proud of to realize that his girlfriend is talking to somebody else.

"Oh, aren't you just so cute, look at you."

"I prefer sexy," he claims, glancing up from his guitar with a smirk. It slides right off of his face when Mimi completely ignores him, continuing to coo at whatever it is she's got cupped in her hands.

"Yes, yes you are," she assures it, stroking with one finger. Unbearably curious and kind of sort of wanting her attention, Roger sets his guitar aside- he wasn't getting anywhere with that anyways and they all knew it- and creeps forward, wary. His first thought is that she's caught an alley rat and brought it home with her, opening his mouth to protest, but then he catches sight of it's tiny face.

Pink nose, yellow eyes, fire-colored fur. It mewls pathetically, swatting out a little orange paw at Mimi's curls and she giggles, kissing the top of its head.

"I'm allergic to cats." He frowns, stepping back, bristling automatically. God damn it. Does she even know how long it's taken to get Mark to give up on the dream of ever having a pet in this godforsaken pit they call a living space? No, she doesn't, and she obviously doesn't care, sticking her tongue out.

"Roger, he was freezing. I wasn't just going to leave him there." She hums happily, stroking the frightened animal's dirty fur. Roger cringes.

"I hope you plan on washing your hands after you put that thing _back where you found it." _He's never been very subtle; hands on his hips, he stares her down with what he thinks is an impressive glare. It's not. It might have scared Mark but Mimi is made of tougher stuff and she only rolls her eyes.

"I'm not taking him back," she says firmly, and that is that. Mimi never backs down once she's made her mind up about something. It's both infuriating and endearing, sometimes more of one or the other. Today, it's aggravating him to no end. He plugs his nose.

"Get that furball out of here. I'm allergic! I could die!"

"No you won't." She sees right through him, snorting. "I know you, Roger. You just don't like animals."

"I like animals," he protests, still glaring daggers at the baby cat in her hands. "Just not asshole animals. Cats are dicks."

"Well so are you. You'll get along fine," she deadpans, smiling with those full lips and even when she's making him crazy he still wants to kiss her. This whole love thing isn't new to him but he's rusty, and it still takes him off guard once in a while. The fact that it's _Mimi_ doesn't help at all seeing as she's the most puzzling woman he's ever met, and that includes April. She continues as if he isn't busy trying to reorganize his thoughts. "I was thinking of naming him after you."

"I don't even like that thing." He's nearly pouting now, knowing that there isn't a snowball's chance in hell that he's going to win and arguing anyways. "I don't want it coming to my _name."_

"It's a cat, Roger." Exasperated, she allows the little monster to gnaw on her finger. Despite himself, Roger thinks that's actually sort of cute… and gross. "They don't come when you call them."

"And yet you still have to clean up their shit," he mutters, crossing his arms and tapping a foot. "Get it _out._ Before Mark sees it."

"He's just a baby- what about Mark?" She raises an eyebrow and Roger inwardly curses. He forgets sometimes that Mimi doesn't know everyone the way he does, especially not Mark, who once brought home a pregnant cat and made Roger help him find "good and loving homes" for all six of the kittens. (and only after he'd gotten himself all worked up at the thought of separating them from their mother) If she figures it out, there's no _way_ they'll ever get rid of the thing. Mark'll probably crochet the thing a bed.

"I heard my name!" The filmmaker peeks out from the hallway, glasses crooked on his nose. He's been cooped up in his room all day working on some project or other but when his eyes zero in on the kitten in Mimi's hand Roger knows all hope is lost.

Mimi grins as he inhales sharply, bee lining straight for her and taking the baby gently into his hands. "Oh my God, he's so little. We need a bottle!"

As Mark starts to babble excitedly, rushing back to his room where he just _knows _he has all of the old cat stuff lying around somewhere, Mimi leans into her boyfriend's side with a smug look on her face. He tries to scowl, but her lips meet his and he smiles involuntarily, arms curling slowly around her waist.

"I guess I won't chuck it out of the window… Merry Christmas," he eventually mumbles, almost having to pretend to be grumpy. She giggles, burying her face in his chest.

"You love me."

"I do."

"You're going to be a great daddy-"

"Don't push it."


	12. I Wish I May

**A/N: An impromptu merry Rentmas to Daelen, as I hath honored her request for snowy Marker. :) Happy holidays to you my fellow shipper. Enjoy the angst and Mark and Roger.**

Disclaimer: _All of those things I just listed, yeah, I don't own them._

**Eleven and a Half**

Roger hates the fall because fall leads right into winter.

He hates the word 'autumn.' To him, to Roger, autumn is just a pretty word for fall and fall was just a way of saying 'dead'. He doesn't understand the romanticism of falling leaves, brown and red and gold, because when it comes down to it they're dead things and the obsession just seems morbid and absurd.

So if Roger hates fall, then he _loathes_ winter. He loathes everything to do with winter. Christmas and carols and big bulky coats. The cold. The snow.

Snow.

Roger hates snow more than anything in the world. It wasn't always this way. Mark can testify to his excitement those first innocent years in the city when the first fresh snow fell, blanketing the rail on the fire escape and turning to slush in the alleys below. It seems much longer ago than it is. Roger can remember loving the snow and the sharp sting of cold on his face as he and Mark and Collins and whoever else happened to be in the vicinity flung balls of the stuff at each other, laughing and breathless, flushed and freezing and wet. It aches.

Because Roger isn't that carefree boy anymore. They all know it but nobody is willing to talk about it, the taboo subject of his sinister disease.

He can't play in the snow anymore.

He can't even go outside without at least three or four layers.

And it hurts not just to know the price he's paying for his own idiotic decisions but to know that Mark has to watch it all, suffer in silence, his blue eyes sadder than they'd ever been before April and her note.

And now, nearing thirty, Roger barely dares to go outside at all. Mark yells at him for smoking in the house and he just rolls his eyes. It's the elephant in the room; they both dance around the subject as if they can overlook it if they try hard enough, but sometimes Roger swears that he can see a longing look in his sidelong glances that says he really wants to ask for just another snowball fight.

It hurts hurts hurts and Roger hates the winter, because all he wants to do is make a snow angel and maybe hold Mark's gloved hand in his, and lie looking up at the grey of the winter sky and smile like he used to.

His smile is gone, though, gone or halfhearted and time is running out for him to have that last snowball fight before he dies.

And he's going to have it with Mark.


	13. Four Years Was Enough

**A/N: Oh hey lookit that it's time for the finale already. Wow. Okay guys, I know that there's a lot of people that I didn't write one specific Rentmas gift for and I'm sorry, but hey- this one is for everyone. I really hope everyone enjoyed this year's Rentmas. I'm already planning for next years! Have a good holiday, everyone.**

**Love, Toni**

Disclaimer: _If any of you still think that I might be Jonathan Larson, I'm going to have to let you down gently now._

**Twelve**

It's the Christmas of 1987 and Mark doesn't know what to do with himself.

He's Jewish, he reasons, and he has a cheap menorah in a box somewhere gathering dust in his closet to prove it. So he doesn't _have_ to celebrate Christmas. He doesn't even have to celebrate Hanukkah. He's his own person, and his new friends, they'll understand that. Right?

Except that, in Alphabet City, he has yet to meet a single Jew. Even the homeless seem to be caroling.

The loft quickly becomes something akin to Santa's workshop or possibly the inside of a gingerbread house. It's warm, cozy and bursting with red and green paper chains that April has been churning out faster than Roger can write his shitty holiday album that Mark can already tell will never make it off the ground. Everyone is bustling in and out and gifts are being wrapped behind closed doors, piling under the tree.

He wonders if he should be wrapping presents, too, but Maureen with her fluttery eyelashes and her pouty lips just grins and ruffles his hair, telling him that he has nothing to worry about.

He has no idea why he believes her. Maybe it's because he can see her nipples through her shirt.

Opening presents is just about the most awkward event Mark has ever been forced to attend, especially when April and Roger start making out in a tangle of limbs and muffled moans on the rickety couch, completely ignoring the rest of them. That leaves Mark with Maureen, Benny and Collins, all of whom take part in wrapping the tackiest scarf he's ever seen around his neck. (_"Merry Christmas Marky! Welcome to New York-" "Guys, I- I don't really- I mean thank you but-" "Shut it, Cohen, you don't get a choice.") _

To top it all off, Collins uses the striped fabric to pull in into a friendly kiss that Mark can never, ever tell his mother about.

He whimpers.

Roger laughs.

April silences him, probably with her tongue.

It's safe to say that Mark has received a warm welcome into the group- now, to worry about next year.

**MERRYRENTMAS**

Christmas of 1988 is good and bad, and Mark isn't entirely certain what to think of it.

On one hand, the Christmas spirit has been dampened significantly. There are no paper chains or mistletoe lying about this year. The living room is cluttered with boxes and boxes of Benny's things, which Mark can't believe even all fit in his room. He's moving out and everyone is preoccupied with goodbyes and 'good luck's.

Mark is still just trying to remember when that golden band had mysteriously appeared on his roommate's finger.

Speaking of roommates. April is a lot less interested in cutting and gluing and wrapping this year. She sprawls across Roger's chest on the couch, happily strung out on whatever it is they get at those clandestine meetings in the alley outside, which Mark pretends he can't see from the fire escape. He'd asked Roger about it once, and he's lucky that he got away without a broken nose.

They're still not really on speaking terms. Mark wisely decides to do as he said and "butt the fuck out."

It's Roger's choice, he reminds himself. Roger's choice and Roger's happiness and April won't let him do anything too stupid, will she? It's not Mark's job to keep the guitarist in line.

Normally that would fall to Collins, actually. But Collins has locked himself in his room with a stack of papers as high as Mark's knee, presumably to be graded before NYU was back in session. He can't really be blamed for not taking part in the festivities, anyways, because he's the only one of them with a real job and with Benny moving out it's looking like he'll be paying the majority of the rent this coming month.

As for Mark, he's faring better this year than last. He's managed to scrape together cash to buy everyone a little trinket, and Maureen has gotten into a fight with her latest (and handsomest in Mark's opinion, who has no idea why he's even thinking about it) boyfriend and planted a wet kiss on the filmmaker's lips in defiance. It sucks for what's-his-name, but Mark is pretty happy with the whole arrangement.

Maybe he'll actually have someone to kiss on New Year's?

**MERRYRENTMAS**

By the Christmas of 1989, however, Mark is alone again.

They don't have heat anymore. Benny has decided to be a dick of a landlord and shut off the power on Christmas Eve, which Mark supposes he should have seen coming. He's piled all of the blankets in the loft save one on Roger's bed. They're the last two left, Collins having gone away to teach in other parts and no one is paying the rent, not even Mark, who has yet to find anything he's good at besides filming everything that moves.

Everyone has someone to kiss this year, too. Not Mark. He wouldn't mind so much if Maureen hadn't taken it upon herself to introduce him to her new girlfriend. Joanne is not only ten times as successful as he'll ever be, but she's also apparently ten times better in bed, which Maureen makes a point to announce. Multiple times.

He can't really resent Roger for finding himself a new girlfriend after everything that's happened to him this year. Mimi is a big improvement on April simply because she has yet to off herself in their bathtub. (Mark is convinced that that's why Roger refuses to bathe for weeks at a time now, but he feels guilty for blaming a dead woman for anything.) She's sweet enough, and she's lured Roger out of his funk, That in itself is enough to make Mark a fan.

The only thing that's bothering him, really, is that he has to watch them make out. It's not like he never saw April's tongue in his roommate's mouth- it's just that now it gives him an uncomfortable burning sensation in his gut. He supposes he can deal with that, if she makes Roger happy.

Collins has returned for the holidays, but thankfully he doesn't need Mark to clear out of his old room. Apparently he's found his better half- Angel is certainly something, a lot to take in, but Mark likes her immediately. She's good for all of them, he thinks. She gives him hope and God, does he need it.

It's up to him now to keep their little bohemian family together.

He just hopes he's up to the task.

**MERRYRENTMAS**

It's clear by the Christmas of 1990 that Mark is in way over his head.

This year has been a disaster. Angel died and Roger left. Mimi relapsed, again and again, and finally dropped out of rehab, disappearing. Benny is getting a divorce. Collins is subdued, paler by the day. Maureen and Joanne haven't dropped by in almost a month- he's not even sure if they're still together. Mark has sold out and then quit his job, leaving them penniless once again on Christmas Eve.

In short, everyone is miserable.

Even Roger's return does almost nothing to lift his mood. In fact, it's only confused Mark further. All of those strange, uncomfortable feelings from the past year have snowballed into one big clusterfuck and he's pretty sure he's in love with Roger at least ten times over. If losing him to Santa Fe had been traumatic then getting him back had been catastrophic for Mark's emotional health. The blitzkrieg of butterflies had nearly put him out of commission, drowning in his own blush, a sting of uncharacteristic tears.

All he could think was that Mimi was going to kill him, if she ever came back.

Mark is a failure. Collins had passed on the torch and he'd dropped it right into the dirty slush, and everything had gone to hell. No matter what anyone says, he blames himself.

Everyone holds their breath when, in a dramatic turn of events, Mimi arrives on death's door at ten that night. For the first time in a long time everyone is present, everyone except Benny. The family is back together again, if only to witness the death of one of their own. Roger is in hysterics and Collins is staring blankly, perhaps remembering his own grief when only a month before he'd held his lover the same way, heart tearing to pieces as she took her last breath. Maureen and Joanne clutch at each other, crying and watching in horror. Apparently they are still together. Huh.

And then, a miracle.

Her fingers twitch. Christmas is back on.

There are no paper chains, or mistletoe, or even a tree to put presents under if any of them had the money to buy them. Mimi is covered in dirt and swear and track marks, and she's got a whole hell of a road ahead of her if she even can recover from this. But she's alive. Mark's film is done, Roger's song is sung and a new year is beginning with all of them together, a family once again. Little, broken- but still good.

There's only one thing that weighs on Mark's mind through the night, and it keeps him awake well into the morning, gnawing at his insides. He finds Mimi on the couch wrapped in a sleeping Roger and a blanket, watching the sun rise out the window. She turns to greet him, smiling wearily.

She knows.

She _knows._

He can see it all at once, in the way she smiles at him, in the way her gaze shifts to Roger and back to Mark's face. He wants to cry. He wants to apologize in a thousand different languages, and he starts to, but she shushes him and takes a deep breath.

And asks him to make her some tea.

They sit there together, sipping on cracked mugs and waiting for the day to begin. Mark isn't sure what to think, and his nerves are ready to snap. He wishes that he'd gotten Mimi a present this Christmas, even though he's still Jewish and still terrible as terrible at this Christmas thing as he was four years ago. At least to make up for the feelings he can't control, that make him look away every time Roger presses his lips to his lover's and smiles like she's the only thing in the world. She's sick and dying, and he has no right to take this last happiness away from her.

Mimi smiles at the cityscape in the brightening daylight, her curls still matted, fingers stroking through Roger's overgrown hair. She's taking her time.

Because in all the years that Mark has lived in the city, never once has he asked for anything special for Christmas. He's always sat behind his camera, waiting for life to pass by and rolling with the punches, just waiting for the next tragedy to strike. Mark deserves a medal for the patience and the friendship he's given all of them, the best gift he could ever have given. And he has no idea.

But four years was enough.

Now it's his turn to relax, to get what he wants. Mimi looks down at the blissful, stubbly face of her sleeping lover, those long eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. He looks exhausted- after all she's put him through, she can't blame him. She isn't the worst girlfriend in the world, but she certainly hasn't been the best. And next Christmas she won't be able to come back for him.

Then she glances to blue-eyed, baby-faced Mark, watching her anxiously, awaiting judgment. Mark, whose taken care of Roger through everything. Mark who deserves so much more than loneliness. Mark who loves Roger so, so much and won't ever admit it until someone forces him to.

Maybe Mimi didn't think to give Mark anything special for Christmas this year, but she already knows what to get him for next year.

And, since she won't be around, she's giving it to him early.

"Mark," she begins, commanding his attention immediately. He bites his lip, clearly expecting a talking to. She just smiles. "I have a favor to ask of you…"


End file.
